


Lightning always strikes more than once

by MidnightEternal



Series: Light me aflame [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Krem, Fever, Fever Dreams, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Captivity, Implied/Referenced Sensory Deprivation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Latin as Tevene, Multi, Nightmares, Poor Dorian, Sick Dorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightEternal/pseuds/MidnightEternal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian comes down with a fever from the storm, he relives the time he spent locked away before his father attempted the Blood magic ritual. Krem and Bull can barely stomach seeing their lover so broken. (Set after Passion is the Flame of All, but could be read alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightning always strikes more than once

**Author's Note:**

> Another one for you, dears! After writing _Passion is the Flame of All_ , I felt that I couldn't wait to write the next addition due to the glaring emotional issues that I touched on in that piece. Rated Teen&up due to the nature of the subjects that are used in the piece, rather than for any other reason. Oh, and just so you're aware, I ripped my own heart out writing this. 
> 
> And so,  
> enjoy <3

The sun was still low in the sky when Krem was roused from his calm sleep. The warrior immediately turned over, twisting his body closer to Dorian’s. The mage was hot, much warmer than usual, and it prompted Krem to lean up on his elbow, placing his free hand on Dorian’s forehead. Though the mage’s breaths were deep; his chest rising and falling steadily, his skin was figuratively on fire. Krem moved his hand down to rest against Dorian’s cheek, and glanced over to the sleeping Quanri resting beside him.  
  
“Bull,” Krem said in an urgent whisper. “Bull!”  
  
The grey-skinned warrior’s eye flashed open, his gaze quickly falling on Krem’s worried face.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Bull asked, sleep still coating his voice, making it thick and low.  
  
“It’s Dorian, he’s sick.”  
  
Bull shifted his arm out from underneath both ‘Vints, resting his hand under Dorian to lift his upper body off of the bed. Krem dropped his hand to Dorian’s chest, feeling each breath that moved his torso up and down. Dorian’s brow furrowed, lips falling into a grimace and causing his face to scrunch up. He didn’t wake.  
  
“Krem,” Bull said, a note of command in tone.  
  
Krem moved off the bed. “Got it, Chief,” and ran into the bathing chambers.  
  
Bull pulled Dorian towards him, manoeuvring the mage between his thighs and resting his head just below his bare chest. Dorian instantly curled into the warmth, turning to lie against the inside of Bull’s right leg and hip. Krem appeared back from the bathing chambers, a cloth in hand. He swiftly climbed onto the bed, kneeling at Bull’s hip, and placed the wet cloth over Dorian’s still-closed eyes. The mage whimpered, and the sound cut through both of his lovers; stiffening their backs, and turning the edges of their lips down.  
  
Bull let his breath roll in his chest, hoping the rumble would soothe the mage as it had many times before. Dorian’s lips moved soundlessly, and his hands came up, bound at the wrists by some unseen force, to clutch at the Qunari’s side.  
  
“Nnn,” Dorian gasped. “ _N-non_.” (No)  
  
“Shit,” Bull said, staring down at their mage.  
  
Dorian twisted his body, writhing in the space between Bull’s legs. His head and shoulders pressed into Bull’s stomach, as if he was trying to get away from something or _someone_ advancing on him.  
  
“ _Pater. Pater,_ ” he begged, hissing in pain. “ _Rogo autem te._ ” (Father. Father, I beg you.)  
  
Krem gave Bull a helpless look, gazing up into his unscarred eye.  
  
“What do we do?”  
  
The clouds covered the sun in that moment, taking away the light that always enveloped the room.  
  
“ _Facere non. Dimittite me in lucem. Rogo autem te, rogo autem te,_ ” Dorian pleaded, tossing his head to the side. (Do not. Leave me the light. I beg you, I beg you.)  
  
Bull glanced down at the man, and making a quick decision, looked back at Krem.  
  
“Get Stitches.”  
  
“On it, love,” Krem said, already scrambling from the bed to pull on a shirt.  
  
Clothes on, the warrior reached into the draws near the door and threw some bundled up fabric at Bull, the Qunari caught it in one hand.  
  
“Put those on Dori, will ya? Pretty sure he’ll have a heart attack if anyone sees him completely bare.”  
  
As soon as Bull nodded, Krem left, racing through the door and down into the empty tavern. Thankfully, it was still too early to drink even by the Inquisition’s standards.  
  
“ _Mater, rogo autem te. Facere non._ ” (Mother, I beg you. Do not.)  
  
Bull closed his eye, pain etching itself onto every inch of his face, pulling inwards. There was nothing he could do here, Dorian trapped in fever dreams that are known to be relentless with their hold. He bent over the mage, slipping the smallclothes that Krem had thrown to him over Dorian’s feet.  
  
“ _Et ego non sum turbatus. Sume... Tolle eum. Rogo autem te_ ,” Dorian appealed, kicking ever so lightly. (I will not run. Take them... Take them off. I beg you.)  
  
Bull quickly tugged the material up Dorian’s long legs, pulling it over his pelvis, and settling the band on his hips. He placed a careful hand against Dorian’s cheek, feeling the heat, and watching as the first droplet of despair escaped from the cloth over his eyes.  
  
“Papa...” Dorian whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Papa, _Rogo autem te_.” (I beg you.)  
  
Bull heard a sob and looked up at the doorway, seeing Krem standing there, one hand clasped over his mouth. He looked distraught, gaze trained entirely on Dorian’s face. Small teardrops ran down the warrior’s cheeks, unchecked, as his eyes roamed over his lovers.    
  
Bull beckoned him closer with an outstretched hand, watching as he slowly walked closer.  
  
“You won’t wake him, come here, _Kadan_ ,” Bull said.  
  
Krem slid into the crook of Bull’s arm, pressing himself against the much larger male. He startled as Dorian whimpered again, and glanced down to witness their third violently flinch.    
  
“ _Noli facere verbum hoc,_ ” the mage squirmed, tucking his body closer to Bull’s. “ _Non eis nocebit._ ” (Do not do this. Do not hurt them.)  
  
Stitches chose that moment to come in, he glanced over the triad: Bull, with one hand lightly stroking Dorian’s hair, and his other arm tightly around Krem. Krem, curled up at Bull’s side, gazing down at Dorian with tear tracks on his face. And Dorian, flinching fretfully on the bed, half resting against Bull, skin shiny with sweat, hair mussed, and cheeks wet with tears.  
  
“Damn,” Stitches cursed, pacing quickly towards the bed.  
  
“ _Prohibere. Rogo autem te, prohibere._ ” (Stop. I beg of you, stop.)  
  
And that, if nothing else, did stop Stitches in his tracks. The man watched as Dorian dug his nails into Bull’s leg, not that the human could do any damage to him like that.  
  
“ _...Cur non cessat?_ ” Dorian’s hands clutched onto Bull’s flesh tighter. (Why won’t you stop?)  
  
“The fuck caused this?” The healer asked, sitting next to Bull’s leg to get a better look at Dorian, still slipping out half-broken sentences and words in Tevene.    
  
“He was out training in the storm last night, but,” Bull shrugged half-heartedly, “Besides the shivers when we convinced him to come inside, he seemed fine.”  
  
“How often’s he in the library lately?”  
  
Krem sat up a little, wiping his hands across his face. “Pretty much every day, if he isn’t training with us, or out with the Inquisitor.”  
  
Stitches rummaged through his bag. “That normal?”  
  
Krem sniffled, trying to calm himself down. “Yeah, ‘specially while he’s looking into Corypheus.”  
  
“Papa. Papa, _rogo autem te._ ” Dorian said in a hoarse voice. (I beg of you.)  
  
Krem sobbed again, hanging his head, and tightening his hands into fists. The pale healer plucked a small vial of green potion out of his bag, and shoved it into Krem’s line of vision. The Tevinter looked at it with some distrust.  
  
“Drink it, it’ll calm you down. You understand everything he’s saying, yeah?”  
  
The warrior nodded, and reached for the vial with shaking hands, but Bull beat him to it, taking the potion from Stitches, popping out the cork with his teeth, and holding it to Krem’s lips. Tears filled the ‘Vints eyes as he looked up at his Qunari lover, but he tilted his head back, letting Bull pour the potion into his mouth. Bull pulled Krem closer as he helped the man down the potion, and threaded his fingers into his lieutenant’s short hair.  
  
“I’ve got you,” Bull murmured, taking the empty vial from Krem’s lips.  
  
“He’s begging his father to stop, Bull. That’s all he’s saying, over and over,” Krem gasped out, feeling numb despite the warmth from Bull’s large body.  
  
“I know,” Bull hushed, soothing.  
  
Stitches watched Dorian’s lips moving, the sound almost inaudible. He tugged a deep red potion from his bag, and leant over the mage.  
  
“ _Rogo autem te,_ papa _,_ ” Dorian cried. “ _Ego est. Est Dorian, est filius tuus._ ” (I beg you, papa. It’s me. It’s Dorian, it’s your son.)  
  
Stitches motioned for Bull to support Dorian’s head while he gently tipped the potion into the Tevinter’s mouth. He wasn’t known for being soft with his patients, but when the situation called for it, he had the most careful hands and considerate mind that anyone had seen from a field-healer.  
  
“Has he spoken to either of you about anything he’s found?” The healer asked, taking the vial away from Dorian’s lips and watching the man take one final swallow, gasping.  
  
“No, but sometimes...” Krem started, looking conflicted, “Sometimes he looks _so_ tired. More than usual. He’s woken up shaking too. Maybe... maybe he found something that’s reminded him of...”  
  
The warrior gestured towards Dorian, the mage's breath was ragged, but he was quieter than he had been.  
  
“You think he found something that reminded him of home?” Bull asked.  
  
“If that’s the case, this could be trauma-induced. It’s the most likely option,” Stitches replied.  
  
“What do we do?” Krem asked, voice quiet. “Some of the things he’s told us, about what happened, I... I don’t want him to relive that.”  
  
“ _Non, et filius tuus ego sum. Non. Non,_ ” Dorian pled. (No, I am your son. No. No.)  
  
“Seems like his mind isn’t giving him a choice, Krem,” Stitches’ tone was solemn, but his brow was furrowed, the man was obviously thinking.  
  
The two warriors watched as he dug into his bag once more, pulling a light blue potion from its depths, it didn’t shine like lyrium, and the blue was richer, more like the reflection of the sky in ice.  
  
“What is that?” Bull asked. “You’ve never given any of the boys that before.”  
  
Stitches shook his head. “No, I haven’t. It’s made with Elfroot leaves and Crystal Grace petals. The one I gave him before was just Elfroot, for healing, it should ease the fever. This one, though, this should pull him out of the dream. He’s exhausted. His body will keep him asleep to rest, but he won’t get any like this.”  
  
“Do it. I don’t want him stuck where he is all day. His father’s a bastard, it’d be better if he never had to think about him again,” Bull growled.  
  
Stitches nodded, placing the small vial at Dorian’s lips and pouring in the liquid. As the mage automatically drank, he moved the lukewarm cloth away from his eyes and dabbed at his face. Once the potion was gone, he placed the back of his hand on Dorian’s forehead.  
  
“Fever’s broken. He should wake up soon now, the Elfroot’s done its trick.”  
  
Krem sighed in relief, resting his head in his hand. “Thank you, Stitches.”  
  
“Anytime. He’ll wake up soon, but he’ll be confused. Watch out for that. And for the love of the Maker, don’t let him go anywhere near that damned library for a couple days, and tell him to be careful using magic. He’s on bed rest. Idiot needs it,” the healer commanded.  
  
Both warriors nodded, and Stitches left, walking almost silently through the door. Krem slid down to lie on the outside of Bull’s body, facing Dorian. He reached out, prying one of the man’s hands from Bull’s leg, holding it against his chest with both of his own. Dorian’s head tilted towards him.  
  
“ _Noli facere verbum hoc. Rogo autem te,_ papa _. Non sicut hoc,_ ” the mage muttered. (Do not do this. I beg you, papa. Not like this.)  
  
Krem grasped Dorian’s hand tighter while Bull wrapped his strong arms around them both from his half-reclined position.  
  
“ _Cur non cessat?_ ” (Why won’t you stop?)  
  
Suddenly, Dorian flinched, his body twitching violently.  
  
“ _Prohibere!_ ” He yelled, eyes snapping open, breath coming out in rapid puffs.  
  
Krem stared into his eyes, copper to silver, and tightened his grip further on Dorian’s tan hand.  
  
“Love?” He asked.  
  
Dorian didn’t respond, eyes wide, breathing shallow and fast.  
  
“ _Amor?_ ” He tried again.  
  
Dorian’s eyes seemed to focus on him, lightening with recognition. His lips moved, wordless, so Krem hushed him, and Bull pushed his fingers into the mage’s hair; a familiar touch.  
  
“ _Quae est finis, Amor. Te sunt hic salvus._ ” (Everything is fine, Love. You are safe here.)  
  
“Cre-Cremisius?” Dorian asked, a note of confusion lacing his quiet voice.  
  
“Yes, my love. It’s alright. We’re here,” Krem soothed, as if talking to a wounded animal.  
  
“I can’t,” Dorian swallowed painfully, “I can’t recall what...”  
  
Bull let his breath roll in his chest, making the soft thunder-like noise that he knew calmed both his ‘Vints. Dorian looked up at Bull, hair askew, tried tear tracks on his cheeks; looking painfully young.  
  
“Bull?” Dorian said, asking everything and nothing all at once. “Bull, I don’t...”  
  
The Qunari ran his fingers through Dorian’s hair, letting the man close his eyes against the gentle feeling. The warriors waited for their mage to start taking deeper breaths, Krem helping the process along by pressing Dorian’s hand closer to his chest. The sound of Krem’s low humming filled the room, a song they’d sang around campfires with the rest of the Chargers. Soft and low, and perfect for comforting troubled souls.  
  
“Maker, what happened? I feel... I feel empty.”  
  
Krem kept humming, letting Bull explain.  
  
“You got a fever during the night, pretty bad. Stitches thinks it was trauma-induced.”  
  
They didn’t make a habit of lying to each other, and they weren’t going to start while Dorian was already so out-of-sorts.  
  
“St... Stitches was here?” Dorian asked.  
  
“Yeah, _Kadan_. Gave you a couple things to break your fever and get you up and about. You’re on best rest, though. Healer’s orders.”  
  
“Oh,” Dorian swallowed again.  
  
“You need to sleep more, pretty mage. We’d prefer it if you got some rest for a couple days,” Bull said, never commanding in his words. “Do you remember what you dreamt about?”  
  
Dorian frowned, eyes shifting away, “...Yes. Vaguely.”  
  
“Do you wanna talk about it?”  
  
Krem’s humming tapered off, and he moved to touch his head to Dorian’s.  
  
“Not... Not right now. Later?” Dorian said.  
  
“Later,” Bull agreed. “But only if you want to.”  
  
“I want to.”  
  
Bull tugged them both further up towards him, wrapping them in his spacious embrace. Krem started humming again, lower, a calming song he hummed whenever Dorian couldn’t sleep. They stayed like that; silent, but comfortable.


End file.
